ArchivedLogs:The Treacherous Mind

The Treacherous Mind
Dramatis Personae Norman, Parley	2013-04-30 Norman gets a visitor. Without an *appointment*.
Location Osborn's Office
It's early morning, likely; a cool spring chill in the air. The first few cherry blossoms, peeking over wrought iron fences, have begun to sprinkle a warm fluffy downpour of petal-pink and white to skate over the New York concrete. Parley has climbed one such fence to perch with feet hooked on the iron leafy detailing. /Picking/ at the flowers with a serene wonder. The easy looseness doesn't have a single discriminating /point/ where he shifts from floral communion to hopping down to the ground, washed through to a singing camouflage made up of city life - businessmen in suits, a scruffy woman sitting against a building with her dog, the driver of the cab that sails by at mach five, startling a group of early-worm tourists. That he's walking behind an early-bird /Norman Osborn/, maybe just arriving, maybe /returning/ from a short outdoor errand if he's been SLEEPING here like an office troll, seems so merely incidental, so natural that he could just as easily have been invited. Through the door, past the front desks, possibly taking a different /elevator/ and slipping back in behind him at their proper floor, he'll stroll along behind him right into his office. Wearing a neat gray sports coat, lighter gray turtleneck, slacks, dark-ripped glasses, he has tucked a small cluster of cherryblossoms behind one ear. Once the door is closed. "Good morning, Mr. Osborn." Norman has a funny way of /bristling/ - the instant he hears Parley’s voice, his body goes rigid - and there might just be a flicker of something - /yellow/ - in his eyes. Reeling about. Hand /thrusting/ out for Parley’s throat. At first, rough - but an instant later, relaxing. Attempting to wrap around it. Norman Osborn has very large hands. Should he grip Parley’s neck, it’s likely he can palm the whole front end, thumb pressed against the jugular. Either way, he hisses out his next breath with a sharp, surprised snarl... and steps back. Away. Letting his hands drop back to his sides. /Glaring/. “...do you realize,” he says, walking toward his desk, now - his posture shifting back into something resembling dignified control. “...just how dangerous it is to /surprise/ me?” Thmp-bmp. That's the soft sound of Parley's back bumping up against the door; odd fortune or inexplicable deliberation finds his chin ticking up a fraction when Norman turns, perfecting his access. His pulse is thick and rapid for that one shared moment, swallowing against Norman's palm. His eyes are a little - /glassy and wide/, jaw /tight/. Then Norman moves away and he goes about tugging straight his jacket, "Do you realize just how dangerous it is," ffffff, his hands have so slight of a shake before he crams them in his pocket, "to have such an easily accessible trigger?" He wanders forward, plucking the flower from behind his ear and setting it on Norman's desk. En route for the window, "You recommended me to Ms. Emma Frost." He says it neutrally, but pitched just slightly low. “Yes,” Norman replies. To which? The question, or the statement? Maybe both. He’s sitting at his desk, now, pulling the chair out with a creak - booting up the laptop with a *flckt*. The internal fan makes a delicate purring sound as the screen goes bright. “I also spooked your little friend at the Lofts.” He’s typing, now, fingers sprawling across the keyboard in rapid strokes. “Why are you here, Parley?” "He was practically gibbering. Well done." Parley mutters, and the 'well done' sounds so slightly like a 'touche' - the true message behind calling Doug all too clear, accepted and possibly even reluctantly /appreciated/ for its multiple significances. His back is to Osborn, pushing up on his toes to peer down, down down at the streets far below the window. "Though next time you expect me to cooperate with someone on your behalf, you really should notify me. I think it would be in both our best interest if I not lavishly obey anyone that thinks to whisper your name in my ear. Did you know that I'm immune to telepaths?" He looks over his shoulder and his eyes are sharp, thoughtful, but somehow more curious than confrontational, "She is an excellent choice." “No, I wasn’t aware.” By the way Norman says this - it seems so offhand, so irrelevant, like Parley just announced ‘Did you know it’s raining tomorrow?’. But through the words, Parley can feel Osborn’s mind mentally filing that under the heading of ‘Important Things To Know About Parley’. It is a thick folder. “To be honest, I presumed you and her already had spoken. You have a way of - getting around.” Is that a tease? Yes, it is. Still typing. Pulling up files. Things. Emails. Complaints. /Bills/. Norman gives a little mental fft, as if he were shoving aside so many distractions. “It would be better if she were obedient. It would be better if you were /all/ obedient. But, as I have been learning, obedience is a difficult prize to be won. I spoke to -” Though there’s no verbal cue, on the psychic plane, there’s almost a /guffawl/. “-Dr. Victor van Doom. The man in the battle-armor on the news. As a child,” and now Osborn allows himself the slightest smile, eyes rising above the laptop to peer at Parley, “I enjoyed comic books. I’m beginning to think I might be /in/ one.” "We live in interesting times." Parley turns, loosely laces his fingers over his abdomen and rests his back against the window. Backlit by the morning sun, the city buildings rise up behind him like a dingy army. "Regardless," that he /gets around/ (and one eye half-squints at that), "Unless I know from you personally that I'm to cooperate, I do not tend to. Talking about one person's business at another person's table is perilously close to shitting where I intend to sleep." His thumbs are tapping together, a slow rhythmic count down - or possibly referencing a few mental lists, before he eases, "She'll need more information." He's watching Norman's /forehead/, "I don't know if she knows it yet. But she will. If she is as cautious as I suspect." The far, far corner of his mouth curls slowly upward, making a slanted line, "Few know quite as much about the precautions of a controlled psionic experiment as I do." The smile drops. His head tips down. "When did you first become aware of your affliction?" “She knows,” Norman adds, his gaze suddenly - distant. Peering past the rim of the laptop, over toward the door. “Maybe not enough, but - I always presume those I work with - whom I’ve shared information with - share information with each other. Even when it runs counter to my own best interests.” When Parley asks that last question, his gaze focuses in on him - sharpening. The slight tightening of his fingers. “...when I was a child. My father - mmn. Is it important?” That easy, practiced smile. Parley’s power tells him everything he needs to know about it; it is a facade. Beneath it, Norman churns with irritability and discomfort. This is not something he likes to discuss with others. He has kept it hidden for /ages/. No one has known - this entire time, he’s told no one. No one he hasn’t been in the process of /eating/. “He’s always been there. Sometimes, he sleeps. Sometimes, he does not. His presence correlates with my current lot.” Then, something else - again, a distant look, his eyes unfocused as he stares at Parley. His tone is softer, more placid - that rough ocean in his mind briefly smoothing into something polished and worn. “...when Emily was still alive, I went years without a single incident,” Norman mentions. It's a shared eye contact that connects so little; Parley's are deep, steady. When the downward angle of his head causes a lock of hair to slowly slip forward away from his brow, it elicits no blink. "What of your father?" “He was a mindless brute. A moron who boozed his fortune away and died of a predictably boring cause.” And then, there is a refocusing - a sense of /locking on/ to Parley’s vision - as Norman’s eyes snap back to the real world: “And no, I had nothing to do with it. Cirrhosis of the liver. Probably complicated by diabetes, in retrospect. Almost /certainly/ complicated by the drinking.” “There’s little to be said there,” Norman adds, “beyond that it was during one of my father’s - tirades - that I first noticed the change.” "Mh." A gradual nod finds Parley thoughtfully pinching his lower lip. "What are his primary motivations when he's dominant? Can he keep secrets from you?" “Ah. You’re concerned about his /capabilities/.” This, it seems, satisfies Norman; he was bristling at the notion of some /psychotherapy/ session with Parley. “Yes. Sometimes. When he is asleep, I can - do as I please. He is slow to waken. Sometimes, he remembers things he should not. Sometimes, /I/ remember things I should not. But it’s hazy - as if we’re remembering things from a dream. He is not a tremendously intelligent creature. But he is... cunning. Very clever, sometimes.” “He wants...” Norman’s fingers steeple. He leans back in his chair; the contents of the laptop are briefly forgotten. He exhales. “...I genuinely don’t know what he wants. Violence. Food. Confusion. /Chaos/. He is a creature of impulse; sometimes, he acts as if he wants an empire - other times, he behaves as if he desires a world in which no one should rule. He is much like some hungry, vicious, restless animal. I often find myself... forced to negotiate with him.” Distant, again. “We have some... understandings, he and I.” "But not quite enough, it would seem." Parley comments, dropping his hand from his bottom lip. "He knows, doesn't he. That you intend to check him." “Yes. And /I/ know that he’s plotted the exact opposite. He contacted Emma /first/, you know,” Norman says, /frowning/. “Thankfully, he’s not - quite - /sane/ enough to make a very good case.” Parley's head tips, and on an impulse asks, "Would you get rid of him fully, if you could?" “Of course I--” Norman pauses, then. The frown shows no signs of abating. For some time, he is silent; at last, he rises from his seat - and assumes the position so many television shows and movies have projected upon plotting billionaires - arms crossed behind him, staring out of his window overlooking the city. “...after Emily died, he returned - offered me a deal. Helped me retake my company. I ‘chose’ not to acknowledge his means. Pretended that he was - bullying the opposition. Rather than /devouring/ them. But then,” there is a tenseness in Norman’s hands; his fists briefly clench. “...then, he parsed... my son... as weakness. And made a move to... he considered him an unworthy heir. Wanted me to make /another/. And when I refused, he approached the problem as he approaches all problems - he went after him.” “I stopped him. And then I did something... mm, Parley. I do not consider myself a /weak/ man. But this was a dark time in my life - I was... weaker, then. And to exist as a threat to my own son... I threw myself off a building. I /ended/ myself. Out of fear that he would not stop. And then... he brought me back.” Norman Osborn looks over his shoulder, /peering/ at Parley. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I /killed/ myself. The Goblin brought me back to /life/. That sort of power - I hate him. I want him gone. But I also /admire/ him. I want... his power. Failing that, I want his /obedience/.” "We may need that willpower of yours, Mr. Osborn." So simply stated, so neutrally postured, Parley's eyes are, for a single moment, deeply intent behind his glasses, as though some small interesting thing had occurred to him about this man standing before him. "When the time comes. It may make everything. Hm." This last 'hm' is also the sound of him coming away from the window. He trails his fingertips along the edge of Norman's desk while passing it, like a cat's /tail/. And with his eyes set on the door, he seems to be talking to himself when he murmurs, "I'm an empath, you know. And no, I cannot read minds. Not unless I'm invited. It seems only fair that you know." “I’ve suspected your ability to translate extends beyond the merely technical - although I’ve never been sure /how/ extensive. ‘Translation’; such a vague description. It could mean so many different things.” Norman parts from the window; he moves back to his chair. “Tell me. What does your empathy tell you about me? About /him/? I ask not so much because I desire insight - I am only curious,” Norman admits, “because I have never seen him from the /outside/.” Parley grins over his shoulder, an oddly young and pleased expression that has a thin flash of teeth to hear Norman had pieced it together on his own. And offers, "I could show you." A raised eyebrow. Norman /peers/ at Parley, yet again. Peering seems to be his modus operandi on this particular day. There are many things whirring about in Norman’s head << (suspicion) (does consenting give him power over me) (ulterior motives) >>, but... Mmmn. “Show me,” Norman finally acquiesces. Parley's grin fades, in a manner oddly like shrugging out of a jacket and into work clothes. There's no specific place necessary to direct his eyes, though many have their preferences to closed or open lids. He's neither, benign blinking, while walking to the masks against the wall as -- The touch is deliberate; it could be more subtle but isn't trying to be, just a light << (*nudge*)(this is me.) >> His mindvoice, as ever, is not articulate, broken down into concept-fragments. But in recreation of the tapestry that is Norman's mind... it is intricate in its detail; unrolling, it's a deep sense of relentless, powerful-churning but oiled-smooth machinery, massive steel-forged gears and -- yet? For the large chewing teeth of this savage place, there is the nimble 'tick-tick-tick-/tick/' of yet sleek and nimble mechanisms too; tiny micro-cogs, all working in tandem large and small, big ideals and fine detail-- It's Parley's talent, to sort and refine; and in his /experience/ with minds, Mirror's, Hive's, to find that one hair-thin line separating one mind from another. --here, so clear it can be smelled like blood, like iron, creeping up in a red ivy is a veining of - rust, rough-textured and invasive. It marauds amongst the gears, pushing out, pushing so insistently, forcibly /in/... While this is shown, Parley's eyes grow blank, running a fingertip along the edge of wooden fang. "...It's really quite exquisite." He comments. Like an art critic at a museum, he makes the words of admiration sound... distant. Detached. Norman’s eyes open wider as the experience washes over him; for a moment, he seems surprised - but then - calmness. Listening. /Experiencing/. Savoring the moment like one might pause on a particularly tantalizing piece of meat. The metaphor might be apt; the blood-red rust that encroaches in the image of Norman’s mind certainly has a predatorial slant to it - like something slowly creeping out, gnawing at Norman’s brainmeats. What he says next is sluggish and exasperated - it carries the flavor of something Norman has already long suspected, but now, with one more brushstroke put into place, comes to fully comprehend. “I’m going insane.” Parley tips back his head to look up into a mask's dark eyes. "Yes, probably."